The Garden & The Studio
On Tending Forgiveness; Studio Updates
The Garden
A few years ago, shortly after moving into our house, I discovered a very large pile of bricks hidden behind a large rhododendron on our property. I’ve been dreaming about various small projects since finding them. In the Fall of 2025, I finally settled on building a keyhole garden.
The construction of the garden is quite simple. Stacking the bricks tightly is enough. No concrete required. The bottom is layered with cardboard and some other materials to facilitate drainage and create some separation from the ground. The soil mixture isn’t anything fancy—just some Black Cow and run-of-the-mill topsoil. The center compost bin is some cheap chicken wire linked together with zip-ties. I’ll probably put together a simple tripod trellis over the compost bin when my tomato plant gets a little larger.
The concept of the garden could be described as a “soil-nurturing system”. When I need to water the garden, I water primarily into the compost bin (which requires regular churning) so that the nutrients will leach out into the surrounding soil mixture. This should result in healthier plant growth and possibly greater harvests.
Another thing I’m trying out with my garden is inter-planting. My zucchini, tomato, swiss chard, brussel sprouts, turnips, and herbs are all going to be growing up together like siblings. The older siblings with more heat resistance should cast some shade on the younger ones to keep them cool. There are supposedly other benefits to this, but I’m not experienced enough to have anything substantial to say about those things. Anyway, the experiment is part of a much larger ambition: transforming my property into a food forest. I’ll need to go deeper into permaculture studies to reach that goal, but that’s the dream.
Toward the end of Great Lent, I experienced a deep betrayal. I was slandered and falsely accused by someone I once called friend. These words of the Psalmist became my own:
For it is not an enemy who has done me this dishonor,
for then I could have borne it;
Neither was it my adversary who exalted himself against me,
for then I would have hidden myself from him.
But it was you, my companion,
my comrade and my own familiar friend.
We took sweet counsel together
and walked in the house of God as friends…
…My familiar friend has laid his hands upon those who were at peace with him,
and he has broken his covenant.
The words of his mouth were softer than butter, yet war was in his heart;
his words were smoother than oil, and yet they were drawn swords.
~Psalm 55:12-15, 21-22I began to long for wings like a dove to fly away and find rest. To find some far off place in the wilderness to live as a hermit and flee the sorrow and the deceit and the guile. To find some refuge where being abandoned by weak men would no longer be a possibility. Some place where the only enemies are the bare demons and the self. But God gave my heart a garden…
By Holy Week I was carrying my own cross. Thankfully God has a habit of turning the shame of our crosses into our glory, which means we can disregard that shame and press onward with our eyes fixed on the Lord enthroned (Heb. 12:1-5). If we have been united with Jesus in a death like His, we will certainly be united with Jesus in the likeness of His resurrection (Rom. 6:5). My little garden has become a microcosm of that drama, and a way of processing and grieving and finding new life. And new life is indeed growing! God gave my heart a garden…
Before any thought of needing such earthen therapy… Before even owning the house where my garden has been built… Perhaps even, judging by the age of the brick and the house, before I came to be… God prepared someone to leave a pile of leftover bricks for me to find and to be inspired to create something beautiful. To create the very thing I would need to navigate such deep pain. God gave my heart a garden…
Do these plants in my garden remember the sin of Adam? Do they recall the betrayal of my ancestors and hold it against me? It seems to me that the anointing of Christ’s blood on the mercy seat of the world (Rom. 3:21) has purified that memory. That the blood which dripped down from Christ’s wounds ran down to the very foundations of the earth and planted forgiveness in the roots. And now that is why the earth groans for the revelation of the sons of God (Rom. 8:18-25). Perhaps those little plants see me as God wants me to be, and are offering their fruits to that new man as though it is he who now tends them.
“O cast your burden upon the LORD, and he shall nourish you,
and shall not allow the righteous to fall forever.”
Psalm 55:23
Forgiveness is not something that grows easily in the soil of our hearts. God has to plant it. Whether that plant is tended well is largely up to me. When smaller debts are owed to me, do I offer jubilee in response? Or do I act as the ungrateful servant and try to exact what is due? The withholding of forgiveness, even when it has not been sought, is a barrier to acquiring the Kingdom of God. I have heard and read this is the gospel my whole life, but I know it now with certainty: The heavenly Father will turn us over to the guards of perdition if we do not forgive our brothers from the heart, even when those brothers sin against us without ceasing (Matt. 18:21-22, 35). The command to forgive does not have a limit because it’s a virtue that will turn our hearts into Paradise.
The Studio
The momentum of new commissions and successes with Saintly Folk has slowed down over the last month or two. This is not unexpected. I started out the year with a major commission for a large format Stations of the Cross project for an Anglican parish, along with what I would consider a substantial number of smaller commissions for my Founding Members and some of my regular patrons. April and May have taken me deeper into the long and slow work of painting, knocking things out one at a time.
The unexpected events of the last couple months have put me slightly behind schedule with work, but I’ve found a good stride by knocking out small pieces during the week and blocking-in the larger format Stations of the Cross on the weekends. I’ve also got some family and friends lined up to help with the boys to give me a week or two of full-time painting (a major blessing).
More writing is underway as well. I have the final installment for the Organic Icon series that I’ve been wrapping up in Scrivener. I also have a very cluttered notebook with some thoughts concerning creativity for the iconographer that I’m slowly arranging, much of which has been inspired by The Art Spirit. There’ll be some other pieces besides these, but it’s all being crafted in the after-hours and nooks and crannies of time.
A Healing Prayer of St Ambrose
Thee alone I follow, Lord Jesus, Who heals my wounds. For what shall separate me from the love of God, which is in Thee? Shall tribulation, or distress, or famine? I am held fast as though by nails, and fettered by the bonds of charity. Remove from me, O Lord Jesus, with Thy potent sword, the corruption of my sins. Secure me in the bonds of Thy love; cut away what is corrupt in me. Come quickly and make an end of my many, my hidden and secret afflictions. Open the wound lest the evil humor spread. With Thy new washing, cleanse in me all that is stained. Hear me, you earthly men, who in your sins bring forth drunken thoughts: I have found a Physician. He dwells in Heaven and distributes His healing on earth. He alone can heal my pains Who Himself has none. He alone Who knows what is hidden can take away the grief of my heart, the fear of my soul: Jesus Christ.
Christ is grace! Christ is life! Christ is Resurrection!
Amen.
I’ll occasionally pop-in an audiobook while painting, especially on Saturdays. I recently finished The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett. Despite some of the content not being preferable, it has many of the qualities one would appreciate about something like the Cormoran Strike novels while also appealing to those who enjoy fantasy. It was either this or the Gulag Archipelago, but I figured I would save something like that for next Great Lent. I’m thinking I may take up Brisbane by Eugene Vodolazkin next. I’ve heard some good things about it. But I’ve also been taking my time getting through Galahad & The Grail — calling it now: 2026 book of the year.
I’ve also been getting back into pipe smoking. It’s not something I’ve ever done too often. Perhaps getting older is part of the desire. But I’m also presently drawn into the idea of transforming myself into a 36-year-old Malcolm Guite. I suspect the garden may have something to do with it as well. Maybe I’m turning into an amalgam of Niggle and The Old Gaffer. I’ll let you let me know if you like.